Poem By Alc Harris
I keep going back to Calamity farm,
But the stalls are packed up,
The funfair is gone.
One by one they left in the night,
Some left with hate, some left through fright.
The banners and bunting still blow in the breeze,
Ghostly reminders of what could have been,
If you’d played the conductor,
And Id towed the line,
The fan fare would greet us instead of this shrine.
Next year they’ll set up,
Down Judgement lane,
And I know you will be there,
You just the same.
But me Ill just sit here, let me reflect
Till I walk through those gates
Without these regrets.